


Compliments

by chaoticlivi



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Other, Past Abuse, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:21:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22610926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaoticlivi/pseuds/chaoticlivi
Summary: Crowley wouldn’t describe himself as unwilling to take a compliment.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 97





	Compliments

He wouldn’t describe himself as unwilling to take a compliment.

However, after being made to understand for so long that any sort of moral _goodness_ was going to get him eternally tortured, Crowley can’t quite shake his discomfort with being called “nice,” or “good,” or “lovely.” Those words and many others set him on guard. Set his teeth on edge. He can stand it, but he can’t react with the enthusiasm Aziraphale wants. And if he hears it too much, he starts getting cranky.

Aziraphale does not quite understand it at first. “Crowley, I thought all this would mean we could speak a little more plainly to each other. Do you still not like it when I compliment you?”

He doesn’t mean any harm. Crowley mumbles something about how “It’s not that, it’s just…old habits die hard,” feeling silly because he’s the one who’s supposed to be good at adjusting to new things, not Aziraphale. He should be the one pushing this change. Outgrowing old trauma is not quite the same as adjusting to a new fashion, it seems.

But if there is one thing Aziraphale is very good at, it’s manipulating words. So he starts finding ways to tell Crowley exactly what he wants desperately to say and what Crowley wants desperately to hear while circumventing the anxiety.

Aziraphale cloaks his compliments in annoyance, covers them under the guise of banter. “Come, now. I know you have _much_ better taste than that,” he’ll slip, unsuccessfully hiding a smirk, into a debate about art or music or plays.

And sometimes, Aziraphale chooses morally-neutral compliments, ones that Crowley has always desired, but that wouldn’t have earned him worse than an eyeroll in Hell.

“Oh, look at your hair! Positively dashing.” (Nobody in Hell could care less if you’re attractive, but Crowley does like it when Aziraphale openly fancies his appearance.)

“Yes, well, haven’t I always admitted how clever you are? It’s part of being wily, after all. You _are_ smart.” (Wiles are the bread and butter of the demonic job, of course. Intelligence doesn’t make you _good_. It’s just a type of mental strength.)

“Crowley, this really is a very creative idea.” (Hell doesn’t understand the concept of creativity enough to get angry about it.)

And on certain occasions, when he’s feeling sweet and has had what would be perhaps an excess of wine for a human, Aziraphale will say lovely things for Crowley and reframe them so the focus is on himself. “I’m very happy right now,” he’ll sigh into Crowley’s shoulder. Or on some days, “There truly is nothing better than a quiet afternoon with a good book and someone I love.”

“Mm, well, for me, it’s napping over reading, but the sentiment is the same, Angel,” Crowley mutters sleepily, body sprawled across the couch, head in Aziraphale’s lap. “Very fortunate, isn’t it, how _my_ loved one is such a good pillow.”


End file.
